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“You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you.” I stab a pancake with my fork and dig in. I didn’t get to eat dinner with everything that happened last night, and I’m starving.
“I do,” he says, easing himself into the seat next to me. “You didn’t have to stay here and do what you did. Not after the way I’ve been treating you these past two weeks.”
“The least you can do is tell me what happened.”
His chest rises and falls, and then his shoulders slump in defeat. “I’ve been fighting. It’s … something I do. When things get hard.”
My brows pinch together. “Fighting, like you’re picking fights in bars?”
“Underground fighting. Like I used to.”
“The illegal kind?”
“Yes. Last night, I won the fight. Made a couple hundred bucks. Then the loser and his friends jumped me on the way out. Stole the money.”
“Why are you doing this? It’s not like you need the money.”
“Sometimes, I get a craving. When I lose someone I care about, I want to shoot up or have a drink. It’s my trigger. At least that’s what my therapist calls it.” He breaks eye-contact, chin dropping so he doesn’t have to look at me. “I’m fucked up, Carla. I’ll always be fucked up. There’s nothing you can do to change that.”
“Who said anything about changing it?”
“I know you want to help me. Fix me. But you can’t.”
I drop my fork onto the table and level him with a look. “I’m here because you’re hurt and I’m worried about you. Because I care about you. I’m not going to pretend I know what you’re going through. I don’t have a clue what it’s like to be an addict. To live through the things you’ve endured. I can only imagine what it’s like, and it breaks my heart.
“You’re fucked up and that’s okay. We all are. Life fucks us all, one way or another. But that doesn’t mean you have to go it alone. You don’t have to punish and isolate yourself. You’ve lost so much, but you still have people here who are counting on you. Your clients need you. You inspire them to keep going. You’ve inspired me to keep going.”
He stares up at the ceiling, like he’s talking to the universe. “I’m tired of losing the people I care about. People I love. I get a tease of what it’s like, and then it’s ripped away from me. It’s a constant reminder that I don’t deserve any of it.”
“And why is that? Why don’t you deserve happiness and love?”
“Never have. I’m not destined for anything more than what I’ve got.”
“That so?” I wave my arm around his apartment. “Look around you. Look at the life you’ve built. You came from nothing. But you didn’t give up. As much as it pains me to say this, Kimmie gave up. Whatever she was going through, she decided to take the easy way out. That’s not you. You’re more than that. So much more.”
“What makes you such an expert?”
“Just calling it like I see it.” I cross my arms and narrow my eyes. “Maybe if you let people love you, you wouldn’t have to get punched in the face just to feel something other than pain.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Nobody wants this shit show.”
“Keep telling yourself that. Let me know how that works out for you.” My chair scrapes across the floor as I push away from the table and stand. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Carla, wait.” TJ follows me into his bedroom.
“Where are my clothes?”
“They were still wet. I threw them in the dryer.”
“Fine. I’m going home. I’ll see you later.” I swipe my phone off the nightstand and sling my purse over my shoulder.
“Carla,” he says, trailing behind me into the hallway.
I spin around, lifting my chin. “What?”
“You don’t have any pants on.”
I look down at my bare legs sticking out from underneath his oversized T-shirt. “Whatever.”
